


I'd wanna be felled by you

by ClaritaWinter



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fisting, But it's mainly porn, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Facials, Feminization, Fisting, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Worship, M/M, Manhandling, Mild Choking Kink, Name-Calling, Nicky is a slut for everything Joe, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Spooning, The C word is used, Yusuf Al Kaiysani has really sexy hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaritaWinter/pseuds/ClaritaWinter
Summary: Nicky was beyond acquainted with the power that Joe’s hands wielded. He remembered vividly their weight encircling his neck, pressing on his windpipe, his strong grip around Nicky’s throat while his lungs burned and ached for air, on that fateful, rotten battlefield in Jerusalem. That was how Joe had killed him for the third time. It was desperate, brutal and intimate. A fitting description of their earlier relationship.Since then, Joe has found more eloquent ways to steal his breath away.Nicky is worshipful of Joe's hands.Joe's hands are worshipful of Nicky's body.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 157





	I'd wanna be felled by you

**Author's Note:**

> The fisting fairy visited me and this tale was conceived. Blame the fairy. 
> 
> Shout-out for [Emjudo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejdominus/pseuds/ejdominus)  
> and [Dana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram) for being awesome betas!

Nicky has always been enthralled by Joe’s hands.

He would catch himself staring at them, transfixed by his large, calloused palms, roughened by years of merchant work and endless drawings. His long, slender and wickedly talented fingers would captivate him and trace patterns across Nicky’s hip as he held him safe in his embrace, whispering honeyed words into his ear that made him shiver and blush.

Nicky was beyond acquainted with the power that Joe’s hands wielded. He remembered vividly their weight encircling his neck, pressing on his windpipe, his strong grip around Nicky’s throat while his lungs burned and ached for air, on that fateful, rotten battlefield in Jerusalem. That was how Joe had killed him for the third time. It was desperate, brutal and intimate. A fitting description of their earlier relationship.

Since then, Joe has found more eloquent ways to steal his breath away.

But with time, Nicky saw that those hands weren’t just made to lift swords and deal killing blows to his enemies; to hurt and maim. The same hands that slowly squeezed and gripped Nicky’s throat until his breath stopped short, were the ones that stretched towards him in a peace offering, showing a level of mercy and kindness to which Nicky knew he wasn’t deserving of. Not at that time.

Those hands made dazzling drawings of the villages they visited, the generous strangers they encountered along the way, and captured Nicky on ink and paper in such an exquisite way, that it bewildered him to know that this is what Joe saw when he looked at him.

Hands, that wrote countless poems, leaving Nicky speechless and awed.

Hands, that covered Nicky’s and would intertwine their fingers while they spooned, bodies completely pressed, enveloping Nicky in his scent and warmth.

Hands, that caressed every inch of his body, leaving phantom marks on his skin wherever he touched.

Hands, that could be as gentle and tender as Nicky needed and as rough and commanding as he craved. Hands that cradled his face and wiped his tears when the uncertainty and fear was too much and also gripped his thighs, grabbed his hips, slapped his ass and pulled his hair in the throes of passion. Nicky has worshipped every part of Joe, for he is the only one who was ever worth it to get on his knees for, but his hands... his hands could make a poet out of Nicky.

He loved it when Joe would spread him out on the bed, big brown eyes intensely looking down at him, watching every micro expression on his face, making him tremble, whine, quiver and break under the way Joe expertly played his body. He would brush Nicky’s jaw and trace his bottom lip with his thumb, collecting gasps and shudders, before slipping two fingers into his mouth, fucking them in and out, slowly at first and then rough and demanding later, making Nicky suck on them. And he gladly would, slurping on his majestic fingers and stroking his wrist like it was his shaft.

Then, Joe would slowly withdraw his fingers from his mouth, observing the way Nicky's mouth stretched around it and clung to it, and he would slide down the path from Nicky’s chin to his chest, reaching his pink nipples and rubbing them in gentle circles, drawing hitched breaths and broken moans out of Nicky, encouraging him to be louder, to let himself go and take everything Joe was willing to give him.

Nicky would beg for Joe’s fingers, tongue and cock, would beg for any part of Joe to be inside of him. He needed to feel full of Joe, to be owned by this charming, thunderous, protective and sweet man who could read him like one of his poems. Nicky loved feeling helpless, dominated and completely at the mercy of the man who would put him on his knees after an overwhelming day, hold his head in place, and feed him his cock, inch-by-inch, stretching his lips impossibly wide and ordering him to look him in the eye while he did it.

Joe would get this wild, determined look on his face while he fucked Nicky’s hot, wet mouth, as if he couldn’t believe how beautifully Nicky obeyed and surrendered to him. He would fist his hands in Nicky’s hair and order him to leave his mouth open while he traced the contours of his lips with his cock and then slapped him with it, smearing precum all over his face. Nicky rejoiced in the rough treatment. The filthy, degrading names that Joe would only ever call him in these singular situations - so hard to reconcile with the sweet words Joe would whisper to him afterwards - making him ache and bringing him to the verge of coming.

“Slut”, “bitch”, “whore”, “cumslut”. Joe would say as he slid his cock in and out of Nicky’s lips, controlling the pace, thumb wiping away a stray tear due to the rough battering to his throat. He would take his cock out of Nicky’s mouth and guide his head to his balls, make him lick and suck on each one, and then slip his cock back into his parted, swollen lips. Sometimes, Joe would sit on an armchair as Nicky kneeled between his legs, head bobbing back and forth, making choking and gagging noises - they both knew it was just Nicky putting on a show for Joe’s sake as he knew how much he got off on the thought - and Joe would draw Nicky in that position, committing to mind and paper the image of hazy-eyed Nicky deepthroating his cock.

Some nights, when they were both aching for something more extreme, and it was just the two of them in their favorite place in the world, Malta, Joe would take his time slowly taking Nicky apart.

He would lay Nicky on his stomach, two pillows propped up beneath his hips, back arched enticingly as Joe’s strong hands spread his ass apart, and languidly swipe his tongue over Nicky’s opening, burying his face between his luscious mounds, devouring his hole. Nicky would lose string of all coherent thought, his mind filled with “Joe, Joe, Joe” and “Please, I need you”. In those moments, he would do anything to have Joe inside him, claiming what’s rightfully his in the most intimate way they could think of.

When Joe fisted Nicky, it unraveled like a ritual. After eating him out sweet and slow for what it would feel like hours, he would turn him on his back and insert one lubed finger into his twitching hole, which would be quickly followed by another one, because he knew Nicky could take it. They had been doing this dance for nine hundred years. If Nicky’s body didn’t regenerate back to its previous state prior to his first death at every demise he faced, he knew that his innermost part would be shaped after Joe’s perfect cock.

Nicky couldn’t keep it still when Joe added a third finger. He would clench tight around his slippery digits, spread his legs even wider and try to fuck himself on Joe’s deviously long fingers, but Joe would tighten his grip on Nicky’s hip and press him harder on the mattress, hands commanding him to be still and take it.

Nicky always closed his eyes on the fourth finger. He couldn’t not do it. No matter how many times they did this, how many times Joe took him in this way and told him to keep his eyes on him ‘like a good little slut’ and Nicky thrashed and whined, trying to obey him but being unable to, the burning stretch of his rim around Joe’s fingers robbing him of the last small shred of control he had over himself. Joe’s hand would abandon his hip and roughly grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw, forcing him to open his eyes and look at him. To look at the only man with the power to make him so pliant, so open and so vulnerable. Who could make Nicky do anything he wanted with the snap of his fingers, and in return, give him everything needed.

“You’re such a good whore, Nicky,” he would say, completely hypnotized by the movement of his fingers sliding in and out of Nicky’s puffy hole. “You should see the way your pussy is sucking me in, my heart. Such a nice fucking pussy you have here. All wet, tight and accommodating, just made for my cock.” He would spill all that filth while pumping all four fingers in and out of him, making him whimper like the cheapest whore in a brothel.

By the time Nicky felt Joe’s thumb slowly enter him and his palm curl into a fist, he was a mess of sensations and feelings. Every time Joe started thrusting his fist into him, Nicky wasn’t able to hold back his tears. He knew he made quite a sight. Red lips, flushed cheeks, eyes wet, hips canting back for more, more, _more_ ; more of Joe and his confident, steady and relentless presence, wrapping him in his arms and making him feel safe.

“I love the way your cunt is gobbling up my hand, Nicolò. I also love how you like to keep it hairless. So smooth and pretty, maybe I should fit another hand in there, don't you think?”

And Nicky would be too far gone to understand what he’s saying, his whole being boiled down to the incessant pressure stretching his hole. But, looking at how beautiful Joe looked, how concentrated he was at wringing every conceivable sound from Nicky, sweat gliding over his beard and powerful chest, Nicky knew he would let Joe do anything to him. Anything.

Nicky would always come untouched by the end of their sacred little ritual. He would spill all over himself, back arching and little stars exploding behind his eyelids, shouting Joe’s name. When the world stopped spinning and he came back to his senses, Joe would swipe his fingers over the cum in his belly and have him lick and suck his own juices off his digits. Nicky much preferred to taste Joe’s, but he also knew Joe had other plans.

Joe would climb over his chest and stroke his impressive cock right in front of his face. He was always an amazing sight as well. Unruly hair sticking out on all ends, muscles rippling under a sheen layer of sweat, droplets of it falling off his beard, intense eyes fixated onto Nicky’s face, one hand shoved into his hair and the other stroking his cock covered with the lube he used to stretch Nicky open. Nicky could come again at how manly and strong Joe looked. 

Joe’s alluring abs would tense and he’d come on Nicky’s right cheek first, over his beauty mark, and then his nose, eyelashes, lips and chin. Nicky would always leave his jaw slacked so Joe could fuck a little onto his tongue as well.

“Clean me up, baby.” Joe would say, already reverting to his soft but stern mode. Nicky would lick every inch of his cock and swallow every drop. His face could be already coated in Joe’s cum but he would always be hungry for more.

Later on, after Joe had brought a glass of water and cleaned his face with a wet towel, Joe would pull him to his chest and kiss his shoulder, asking him questions to make sure he was ok.

Nicky assured Joe they didn’t need a safeword, not after all those centuries together. After all, at this point, Joe knew him better than himself. But Joe, always careful with all things, insisted on it because he would never forgive himself if he accidentally hurt Nicky in any way. Nicky’s safeword was “scimitar,” which made him laugh the first time he heard it with how ridiculous it was, which was Nicky’s intention. But if there was one thing Joe would never take for granted, and therefore never risk it, it would be Nicky’s trust.

As they laid spooning together in the little bedroom of their cottage in Malta, Joe’s chest pressed against his back, breath tickling his ear, Nicky took Joe’s hands in his and kissed it reverently, lips gliding over each finger, worshipful and thankful. It was his way of saying ‘yes, I’m fine, my love, thank you for seeing me and not judging me, thank you, thank you’.

And Joe would then entwine his fingers with Nicky’s, grounding him more than he could imagine with this one simple gesture, and he would nuzzle his neck and let the steady sound of each other’s breaths lure them to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  _If I was born as a blackthorn tree  
>  I'd wanna be felled by you  
> Held by you  
> Fuel the pyre of your enemies_
> 
> NFWMB - Hozier 
> 
> Thanks for reading and tell me what you think in the comments below if you feel comfortable doing so!!


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